Just Understand
by Saja Natalia
Summary: While being held hostage during WWII, France comes to a realization about one of his captors, a realization that could change his life forever.


I, Francis Bonnefoy, am not a masochist. I have not, do not, and will not ever enjoy pain. Yet I recall a time during one of my darkest hours, when the beatings I received did not always make me wince. Truthfully I winced outwardly, but I am speaking, rather of mental reactions. There was a time when the man who had quite literally split me open with his bare hands seemed, well, something less than terrifying.

I lost track of time back then. I cannot tell you for certain the date or even year of events that took place during my occupation, save for my capture and my release. All I know was that life was a constant state of darkness, of pain, fear, and endurance. I was told later that the Allies had been fighting for me the whole time, told later that my government had attempted to reclaim me. At the time, the world was out to get me, and every night I prayed that I would not live to see the next morning.

That reaction, I admit, was rather selfish. Had I perished, surely my people would have as well, along with my customs. Even so, I wanted nothing more than to get out of that living Hell I had somehow fallen into.

The most painful part of the occupation, truly, was my lack of control. It must be difficult for those who aren't countries to understand that. The most painful, most agonizing act you can do to one of us, aside from dissolution, is strip us of the power over our lands and people. Germany had done that to me, and I lay eternally bleeding upon his floor.

Yet aside from the first day, Germany rarely laid hands upon me. Rather, I was given, as my tormentor had guessed, as a gift to Prussia. Prussia, my best friend, the man I had stood beside many times, who I had fought many times. I had become his punching bag and there was truly nothing I could do about it.

I suppose, reminiscing, that his anger must have been fueled by the dissolution his brother had announced to him just one year prior to my arrival. At the time, however, it seemed completely unprovoked and unwarranted. There were days when he would barge into my room and instantly begin attacking me without so much as a single grunt of recognition.

Yet there were also times when he would come into my room and simply sit, as if hiding from what was outside of those walls.

It baffled me to see such a powerful man in such a weak state. Could he not easily deal with whatever troubles he had to face? But he would come into my room and hide quietly from the rest of the world.

On occasions such as this, I would attempt to speak to him. It was always in my tongue or the common one, as I was too terrified to speak his language, despite my growing skill at comprehending it. Generally I would be met with either a cold silence or even with another round of beatings, but I insisted on attempting to get him to respond. It saddened me greatly to see him like that. Could he not confide in me even in this dark hour of his life? Was I not trustworthy?

My attempts continued unsuccessfully for quite a while. However, there was one day when he finally responded.

I cannot attempt to guess what day it was or even what year. All I know is that from the small, high window in my room, I could see a sliver of sunlight shining through, projecting onto the adjacent wall. Instantly, my door was wrenched open and in came my only visitor. I braced myself for an attack, but the albino decided instead to slam the door shut and sit against it. We were facing each other.

"Good day," I said to him after a few moments. I had attempted French the previous time with no luck, and so I had switched to the common tongue, as was my habit. "I hope you're well?"

His lack of response didn't faze me. I watched as his red eyes slid down the wall to his left to rest on a particularly dark patch of my dried blood. He seemed in that moment to be almost childlike. I had to resist the urge to attempt to comfort him physically. Children have always been a weak spot of mine.

"I see there's something amiss. You know you can always talk to me, right?" I had begun to suspect, over the past chunk of that nebulous time, that he was uncertain it was me he was speaking to, that it was me he was destroying. It was quite possible I was incorrect, that he knew damned well who he was beating, but my optimism forced me to keep appealing.

As the silence matured between us, I tried anew. "Prussia, you come in here so often recently. Is there something wrong?" Nothing. "You can tell me. I'm France. I'm your…we've known each other for quite a while." Still nothing. My hope was beginning to wane.

A long moment passed, and I was just about to open my mouth once more when I stopped mid action at the sound of his voice. "I know who you are." It was muttered into his arm, but it was intelligible. And it wasn't in German. I was taken aback. I hadn't expected any response at all, let alone one in the common tongue.

"I…" I began, attempting to keep the conversation going. This is what I had been waiting for for so very long, yet at that moment my brain emptied of any possible content that could have encouraged our discussion.

"I just don't want to talk about it, okay? You're a…you're a friend. Just understand."

And that was all he said. Those were the only words he ever spoke to me during my occupation, the only words I heard from him that weren't hostile. The simple request to understand his situation. It seemed simple, yet to me it meant the world.

I sat there, frozen, staring at the man who could, at any moment, spring to his feet and cause me a world of pain. There was something about him sitting there, calm, sad, childish, that drew me in. It was as if I was glimpsing my old friend who had been hidden from me for so very long.

I didn't know it at the time, but that day was the day I first began loving Gilbert. Looking back, there's little doubt in my mind that that is what it was. Every day following that, I would await his entry almost with excitement. More often than not, it would be Prussia that greeted me, armed and hostile. Yet every now and again, Gilbert would step through that door, sit down in a corner, and remain silent. I continued to talk to him, even when I knew he wouldn't respond. I no longer asked him if he was okay, but instead told him my thoughts (excluding those about him, of course). In this way, I passed the years, living both terrified of and loving the man who came to visit me daily.

It would be seventy years before I confessed my affection for him. I dared not tell him my thoughts, yet with each passing day, I began to doubt that he would ever return my emotions.

It seems even the country of romance can be wrong.


End file.
